Words Cannot Express the Depth of Our Disapproval
by inwardtransience
Summary: Like unattended children, the British people have been allowed to wander too far. It is about time the parents came home to set things to rights. The process isn't likely to be fun for anyone — unless, of course, you happen to be eleven centuries old. (immortal!Founders, playful crack fic)
1. You did that on purpose

**_March, 876_**

* * *

 _He was absolutely certain he was about to die._

 _He'd heard stories about prisons before. Or, perhaps more properly, stories that involved prisons in them at some time or another. He never expected he would personally visit the Earl's dungeons. It was a dark, dank, cold place, the bare stone against his skin rough, wet, and freezing, so far entrapped against the sun there was no difference from night to day. Iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles, hard and heavy, already setting his skin to scab and bleed. He sat against the wall, naked, silent and waiting._

 _He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been in here. Days, he suspected, judging by how much his throat hurt, how viciously empty he felt. They hadn't exactly been providing for him very well. He'd had a few visitors. Some from the Magistrate, some from the Church. They would ask him questions, mostly ones so nonsensical he didn't know how to answer, perhaps beat on him a little for that inability — apparently, they thought he was holding out on them, for some reason. He had no idea what they wanted him to say._

 _He hadn't meant to. It had just happened. He didn't know how._

 _Yes, he was absolutely certain he was about to die, any day now. Honestly, it would be something of a relief._

 _Echoing around in the darkness, he suddenly heard the steady tromp of heavy boots. From his time in here, he'd long ago learned exactly what that sound meant — one of the Earl's soldiers, pacing through the dungeons. Opening his eyes, he saw the faint white glow of an approaching light. The colour was a bit out of place — usually it would be the red-orange of a lamp — but otherwise familiar. The number of approaching guards was a bit peculiar. After a moment of listening, he picked apart three sets of footsteps, and only one was the steady, hard pounding of a soldier. The other two were softer. When they got near enough, the white in the hall through the door of his cell growing almost blinding, he noticed the subtle swishing of cloth in time with the softer steps. Probably some wealthier visitors, or clergy — the cloaks and robes they often wore were too expensive for common people._

 _He was a bit surprised when, after a little bit of muttering, he heard the characteristic clanging of his cell being unlocked. A moment later, the heavy door swung open, the whiteness stabbing into his eyes, momentarily blinding him._

 _When his vision finally adjusted, he wasn't entirely sure what to think of what he found. There were three strangers in his cell — the soldier, a man, and a woman. The soldier wore the leathers he would usually expect, but the man and the woman were a bit peculiar. Even ignoring the fact that he wouldn't expect a woman to be down here at all, they were both dressed in the clothes of the exceptionally wealthy — the man in long, thick, shining robes of black and silver, the woman in a somewhat lighter dress of blue, multiple rings glimmering on the man's fingers, silver glinting at the woman's throat. Both were young, not much older than he, perhaps twenty years or so. Even as he watched, the soldier slumped to the ground, leaning against the wall of the cell across from him, at the feet of the woman, who was holding a—_

 _A_ _ **wand**_ _. A quick glance at the man revealed he, too, had a smooth, intricately-carved length of shining wood in his hand. Though he hardly knew anything of the topic himself, he knew what that meant._

 _These two were_ _ **mages**_ _._

 _Of course, the orb of glowing white light floating just under the ceiling should have told him that much._

 _A moment later, and the man was crouching in front of him, staring with dark, steady eyes set in a face framed in black, sharpened by the magical light. His voice soft and smooth, he said, 'Godric, mavy-Leofwine?'_

 _For a second, he was a little confused. After a little while blinking to himself like an idiot, he realised that middle word wasn't Ænglisć at all — he thought it might be the native language the mages still mostly spoke. Once he managed to shake off a little more of his daze, he figured out what the man_ _ **obviously**_ _must have been saying:_ Godric, son of Leofwine? ' _Yeah, that's me.'_

' _I have two questions for you.'_

 _This was quite possibly the strangest of his interrogations thus far. 'All right, then.'_

' _Why did you do it?'_

 _Amazingly enough, that wasn't a question he'd gotten yet. He was so surprised by actually being asked a reasonable and comprehensible question he was dazed for some seconds. It didn't help that he didn't really have an answer anyway. 'I didn't mean to.'_

 _The slightest of smiles crossed the mage's face. 'I figured you didn't. So why did you?'_

 _He blinked for a second. 'I don't know. I was just—' He broke off, frowning to himself. He hadn't known he_ _ **could**_ _do what he had done, much less how it had really happened. 'I was confronting one of the men in the village.'_

 _The mage's gaze intensified, only for a moment, even as Godric remembered the conversation — if it could even be called that. 'Ah, yes. My own opinion such rapacious thuggery probably isn't any better than yours.'_

' _I see.' He really didn't know what else to say._

' _So, you did not intend to kill all those people. The inferno you summoned was accidental, fueled by fury.'_

' _That's a thing that happens often, does it?'_

 _The mage lifted his shoulders in a slight, casual shrug. 'Not particularly. Most people learn how to control their magic a little better than that by your age, and even then it would require an exceptionally powerful individual to do so without rune, focus, or incantation.'_

 _Godric had absolutely no idea what most of that meant — save for one thing the man had implied. 'You mean, that was magic, what I did.'_

' _Obviously.'_

' _But I'm not a mage. I have no magic family, so far as I know.'_

 _The man just shrugged again. 'Occasionally, magic spontaneously appears in a non-magical bloodline for reasons no one quite understands. Hroðwyn—' He tilted his head at the name, indicating the woman behind him, who was still pointing her wand steadily at the silent soldier. '—is one. You are another.'_

 _Godric was a mage? He had absolutely no idea what to think about that information. The thought that he could be had just never occurred to him. The thought made him confused, even dizzy — which was something of an accomplishment, considering he was sitting steadily on solid stone._

' _Which brings me to my second question.'_

 _Might as well just ask. Like he had anything else to say. 'Yeah?'_

 _The man smiled at him, a glint of teeth an unnatural white visible past his lips. 'How would you like to get out of here?'_

 _In a matter of moments, the stranger had shattered Godric's restraints with a few twitches of his wand, created from nothing a robe for him to wear with a simple wave. Weakened from his captivity, he couldn't stand on his own, so he limped out of his cell with an arm around the mage's shoulder, half of his weight supported. He had a thousand questions, too many to really organise in his swimming head. But he asked one, just one: 'What's your name?'_

 _With a grin barely visible from this angle, the man said, 'Silvahárr.'_

* * *

 **January, 1991**

* * *

With only the slightest of popping sounds, Derek Russell snapped into existence. He glanced around the alley for only a moment, confirming he was exactly where he intended to be, before setting off into the street.

A perfectly ordinary looking-man — soft-faced, broad-shouldered, conservatively-dressed, topped with a shock of red-orange hair — he attracted hardly any notice at all from the sparse men and women on the street. He walked steadily, not as though in a rush, but with a sense of having a distinct destination in mind. After walking for a couple calm minutes, he ducked under a sign into a pub. He wasn't entirely sure what the sign said — he could speak the local language well enough, but he couldn't read the script at all.

He didn't expect to be able to recognise the man he was looking for by sight. To be completely honest, he wasn't entirely sure the person he was looking for was even a man. But it really wasn't at all hard to spot him. Even when not actively casting, the magical signature of a wizard eleven centuries old is immediately obvious. Especially when surrounded by muggles.

Derek made his way through the tables, mostly unoccupied, stopping at the one bearing a single occupant. He looked to be maybe thirty, an unremarkable man with a bland face, tanned and lined skin under shaggy black hair. Visually, didn't stand out among the other patrons much at all. But Derek was rather sure he had the man's identity correct. Just to be sure, he quoted, ' _A house divided can never stand_.'

The man glanced up at him. ' _A people divided can never flourish_.'

There. Probably him. Derek pulled out an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, fell to setting across the table. 'What name are you going by at the moment?' As he spoke, he worked a subtle cushioning charm into the chair. Much better.

'Grigor Vartanian.'

Derek winced. 'I guess there are local names harder to pronounce.'

'You didn't think I wanted to meet you in Hayastan on a lark.'

And Derek winced again — Grigor was speaking in Hayeren. He could get by in the language alright, but he was hardly fluent. And he thought his accent was probably a bit archaic. But, oh well. Grigor would probably switch languages before too long. He switched to match his language use just to be courteous. 'Still not sure why you made me come all the way out here. What is there around here, anyway?'

'My wards are here.'

Ah, yes. Grigor and his wards. Certainly couldn't leave those, even just to talk to Derek about...whatever this was about. 'At least we're not _quite_ in an active war zone.'

'Never knew you to flee from a battle.'

'It's a _muggle_ war zone, Grigor. I could get the ICW on my arse just for defending myself.'

'That would be amusing. Those bureaucrats in the ICW trying to punish you for violating the Statute of Secrecy.'

Derek had to smirk a little at the thought. 'Think if I told them my birth name they'd just let me off?'

'I doubt it'd be that easy, but their reactions would certainly be entertaining at the least.' They were interrupted momentarily by the acquiring of drinks — Derek got a very peculiar look when he ordered, so he guessed he probably did have a rather bad accent — but eventually they were properly alone again. 'So, what did you call me all the way out to this middle-of-nowhere country for?'

'Middle of nowhere? We really aren't that far from Akkad and Inner Persia, you know. Both are home to cultures that have been around roughly three times as long as Britain.'

'Yes, yes, I know. Just answer the question already.'

For a long moment, Grigor said nothing, just stared at him with that disturbingly intense gaze the man seemed to have no matter who he looked like at the time. Derek took a sip of his beer to pass the time, and immediately wished he hadn't — it was warm and terribly bitter. When Grigor finally spoke, he'd switched to Ænglisć _._ 'Have you been paying attention to recent events in Britain?'

Derek shrugged, a little uneasily. 'Probably not as much as I should have. Feels like I looked away for just a moment and a century passed. Didn't they have Dark Lord problems a couple years ago?'

'Yes. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about.' Somehow, Derek managed to suppress a flash of annoyance when Grigor slowly sipped from his glass of wine instead of continuing immediately. 'I'm rather sure this particular Dark Lord violated the terms of the Njarðøy Accords.'

Derek frowned, running the name through his head a couple times. 'You're going to have to remind me what those are.'

'Not surprised you don't know,' Grigor said with the slightest of shrugs. 'It's an agreement I brokered between a few Norse Dark Lords, back in the thirteenth century. Amounts to international law for users of the Black Arts.'

'Isn't the use of the Black Arts already against international law?'

At that, Grigor gave him a _look_. 'It's not quite so simple as that. Practitioners of the darker magics, for the most part, don't interfere with each other. But the essence of the Njarðøy Accords that is still relevant today was a declaration of certain specific magics to be off-limits — if anyone is found to have used one of them, the peace is broken. Any practitioner can do whatever they want to the individual in violation without fear of reprisals from the others. It's mostly why the Black Arts have managed to survive hidden to the modern day as they have — we police ourselves.'

Derek decided all of that was reasonable. Most of it he was even pleased to hear — excluding especially those inclusive pronouns at the end. He'd long, long ago stopped trying to sway his oldest friend away from the Dark. Grigor was hardly the most despicable user of the Black Arts anyway — it wasn't like he was going around killing innocent people or anything — so he'd mostly just learned to let it go. 'And what sort of illicit magic is it that this Dark Lord has been using?' Steeling himself, Derek lifted his glass to take another sip of his beverage of questionable potability.

'I have reason to believe the Dark Lord styling himself _Voldemort_ has made multiple horcruxes.'

Worst. Timing. _Ever_. Derek was suddenly gagging, forcing himself to alternate coughing and sneezing to try to clear his lungs and nose from the beer he'd managed to get all over where it shouldn't be with a single shocked snort. Beer really did not belong in noses. It stung something horrible, and he _would_ just force it out and numb the area with a couple quick charms, but he couldn't concentrate through the stinging and gagging to do it wandlessly, and he really didn't think it smart to pull his wand out in—

Following a soft sigh from across the table, his nose and throat were both suddenly cleared, the irritating liquid disappearing with the clear texture of vanishing magic, a numbing charm quickly spreading over the affected nerves. 'You're as composed as always, I see.'

After taking a moment to breathe again, 'You did that on purpose.'

Grigor didn't deny it. He didn't say or do anything, really — just kept staring at Derek with a heavy sort of bored dispassion, as though dreadfully unimpressed.

'So.' Derek pushed the glass of beer further away, far enough he wouldn't be tempted to do something stupid like actually try to drink it. 'We have an immortal Dark Lord walking around is what you're telling me.'

'A particularly vicious Dark Lord, in point of fact. There have been British Dark Lords with greater kill counts, of course — I believe Cromwell is still the most deadly individual to ever ravage the Gaelic Nations.'

'Cromwell?' repeated Derek, frowning to himself. 'Wasn't that the leader of some Parliamentary revolt against the Crown? just before the Statute?'

'No, no.' Grigor actually sounded slightly impatient — though hardly noticeable, even that much emotion on his voice was a little unusual. 'Same time period, just a couple decades before the imposition of the Statute of Secrecy, but not the same person. The Dark Lady Cromwell was a cousin of the Oliver Cromwell the muggles speak of. At least, I think they were cousins — I never exactly met her.

'But as I was saying, this Voldemort was not especially violent, but he was especially vicious. Most Dark Lords will use torture and murder as a means to an end, yes, but this Voldemort will sometimes practice cruelty for the sake of cruelty. He cannot be entirely blamed for the sad state Britain is in at the moment, but I'm sure he made things worse.'

His frown only growing deeper, Derek had to blink at that. 'Sad state? What's wrong with Britain?'

Grigor stared at him for a moment, looking even more unimpressed, supremely disappointed. 'Have you been paying attention at all? When's the last time you've even checked up on your old homeland?'

With an uncomfortable shrug, he said, 'I don't know, honestly. It's been a while. I don't think I've set foot in the place before the Statute, and I haven't made as much of an effort to keep up as I probably should have. Been mostly flitting around America the last couple centuries.'

'I see.' And now he actually _sounded_ disappointed — Derek could count on one hand the number of times, over eleven centuries of knowing him, he'd ever disappointed Grigor severely enough for his voice to actually _sound_ it. Not counting the times he'd just hexed him and walked away, of course, but it'd been a while since he'd done that anyway. 'Well. You know how, after the Statute of Secrecy was originally imposed, there was a period of stagnation in virtually every magical culture? that extended for some decades, in some cases centuries, before the Renewal?'

That was a stupid question. 'Of course I do, you—' Then he broke off, putting together the significance of Grigor even mentioning that. 'You mean… You're saying the Renewal never reached Britain?'

'Little fits and starts of reform here and there, over centuries. Almost always entirely undone soon afterward by a counter-reformation from dominant conservative voices. Albus Dumbledore — you've probably heard of him — is High Enchanter at the moment, and he has been managing _some_ progress over the last decades, but hasn't gotten very far. The legal structure of the government is virtually the same as it was when we left a millennium ago, penetration of new magics and industry is sometimes centuries behind more advanced nations, they still have some of the most stringent blood laws in all the world. No matter how much the United Council of Gaelic Peoples may perceive of themselves as the greatest magical nation in all the world, it is a simple fact that the place is, as the muggles would say, a third world country. And I fear Hogwarts isn't any better.'

For a long moment, all Derek could do was sit and blink. That was… Well, all that was very bad news. He'd had no idea his old home was doing so badly. A thought which made him feel rather guilty, honestly. Here he'd been, wandering around the world, idly studying whatever caught his fancy, occasionally intervening places the light of justice couldn't yet reach. But there Britain had been, all this time, waiting in darkness. He couldn't brood over his failure at the moment, though. There were things he had to— Wait a second. 'Hogwarts?'

Grigor sighed, just a little. 'Yes, it's what they've been calling the Academy at the Open Valley ever since the twelfth century or so. I honestly don't know where they got the name.'

Derek winced — that was a stupid name. But no matter, that wasn't the point of the discussion. 'You think there must be problems at the Academy?'

'For things in Britain to be so bad, it's only logical — if the Academy were properly educating each successive generation, things shouldn't have deteriorated so far.' That was a logical point, he had to admit. 'And reading between the lines in newspapers, history texts, and conversations with a few people, the Academy is far from what it once was. I'm honestly afraid to think of just how bad it might be. We've obviously been absent far too long.'

'What do you mean?'

Grigor gave him a hard, level look, staring at him steadily, directly in the eyes. 'The Gaelic Nations have been allowed to wander too far. Like children, they have no awareness nor care for the ultimate consequences of their actions, cannot see how century after century of inadvisable shortsightedness and selfishness is slowly suffocating the British people. It is about time the parents came home to set things to rights.'

Despite how depressing he found the thought of Britain being brought so low, despite the potential gravity of exactly what it was Grigor was suggesting, Derek couldn't stop his lips from twitching in amusement. Grigor always had had an amusing way with words. At least, when he wasn't being coldly intimidating, anyway. That was less funny. 'And how do you suggest we set things to rights?'

With a long sigh, Grigor sat further back into his chair, draining the remains of his wine. 'That's the crux of the issue, isn't it? Were it so simple as killing one immortal Dark Lord — which I do plan to get to work on when I have a moment — or convincing a few people of the folly of their actions, it would be simple enough, I could do it myself. But this problem is so much bigger. We essentially must reach _everyone_. The entire _culture_ is corrupt, to the point the only way to reform it sufficiently is as a rising tide of public sentiment. My talents are in the shadows, subtle manipulations of people and events unseen — this is not the sort of thing I know how to do.' That was certainly true. Back in the day, Grigor had been absolutely deadly against single opponents, individual enemies who could be either violently or politically neutralised without anyone even noticing his hand. The bigger stuff, the quieting of mobs and the crippling of reactionary sentiment in general, he had always left to Derek and Helga. 'And on top of that, we should probably keep an eye on the Potter boy.

'No, this sounds like just the situation for one of your reckless schemes.'

Yes, he supposed it did. Not that he had any ideas immediately. He'd likely travel to Britain, wander around a bit to get the lay of the land, before even trying to think of anything. But he had another question. 'Potter?'

The slightest grimace of annoyance touched Grigor's face. 'Voldemort's corporeal body was destroyed over nine years ago now — though his spirit is preserved by his horcruxes, of course. It was a young muggleborn witch by the name of Lily Potter who managed to temporarily kill him. The little I've been able to discover suggests to me she set up a sacrificial exchange. While her husband distracted Voldemort, she set up the runes she needed, then simply _let_ Voldemort kill her. With the payment of her life, her runic magic imbued her son with protection enough to not only survive Voldemort's killing curse, but reflect the curse back on him, reducing him to the spectral state in which he yet remains. From what I've been told, Lily Potter was a singular duelist, so I can only assume this course was chosen to ensure the boy's survival — a fight between mages of that calibre is rarely healthy for the bystanders, after all.

'But, for some inexplicable reason, it has instead entered the public consciousness that it was the boy, Harry Potter, who somehow bested Voldemort. I cannot imagine what they think a one-year-old toddler could have possibly done to resist a Dark Lord such as he, but it has become accepted fact in Britain. _The Boy-Who-Lived_ they call him.' Grigor followed that with an almost unnoticeably quiet derisive snort, the slightest roll of his eyes.

While Derek didn't hold quite the disdain for the misinformed masses as Grigor obviously did, he had to admit that was a singularly ridiculous thing to believe. 'Why exactly would we have to keep an eye on him?'

'I would assume, due to the mythos accumulating around him, the boy would become quite a target for exactly the sort of people who will be our enemies in this imminent venture of ours. Watching for who moves against the boy or otherwise maligns him could tell us who we need to account for before they even become a direct threat.'

And there was the sort of thing Grigor was good at. Glad he'd thought of it — Derek wasn't sure if it would ever occur to him to use a child as bait. 'And where exactly is he? With relatives, I would assume?'

Grigor shrugged a little. 'I never managed to find out, actually. Most of his close relatives are either dead or in prison, and those that are neither have no knowledge of his whereabouts. His mother may have muggle family, but her records at the Ministry have either been lost or intentionally destroyed. No one has any idea where he is. He will be starting at Hogwarts this fall, but that's all I know.'

And Derek frowned at himself, his thoughts suddenly nowhere near this little pub in backcountry Hayastan. He thought for a moment, ensuring for himself that this idea he was suddenly having wasn't _completely_ crazy. It was definitely _partially_ crazy, but hopefully not _completely_ — he'd rather not mention a completely useless idea in front of Grigor of all people.

But Grigor had known him too long, was far too perceptive, not to notice something had occurred to him. 'Spit it out, Derek.'

He hesitated for only the shortest of seconds. 'I'm having the wildest idea right now. Let me walk through the whole thing before you start mocking me.'

* * *

 **March, 1991**

* * *

'Lord Elpidis Smethwyck?'

Eli started, his heart jumping nearly into his throat. He whipped around, turning on his heel to spot the owner of the voice, somehow intruding all the way into this hall, deep in his home. When he found the intruder, his voice died in his throat. It wasn't just what he looked like, though that was impressive enough — a tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled man with thick, wavy hair a deep red flowing from head and face nearly to his waist. He _felt_ different. Magic emanated from him like heat from the sun, a constant, burning force so thick he could almost see it, so intense he felt the warmth of it on his skin. He abandoned his hand's half-started motion toward his wand — this was certainly not someone he wanted to fight. 'Who are you?'

The man shrugged, an easy smile stretching his lips. 'The name isn't entirely accurate, but you would know me as Godric Gryffindor.'

Eli had absolutely no coherent response to that. All he could do was stare, eyes wide almost to the point of bulging, nothing passing his lips save for a weak ' _Eeehhhhhh….._ '

With a slightly wider smile, the aura of comforting heat and frightening power lessened noticeably, and the ancient wizard tipped his head toward Eli's study. 'Come. I have something of a proposition for you.'

His legs moved automatically, obediently following the intruder through his own home. What was he going to do, refuse _Godric Gryffindor_?

* * *

One moment, everything was perfectly ordinary. Ciara was alone in her study, aimlessly writing a letter she didn't intend to ever actually send. The next, everything spontaneously stopped making sense.

Appearing with complete silence, without even the slightest pop of apparition, there was suddenly a woman sitting on her desk, just past the top of her parchment. She sat cross-legged, her arms settled on her knees, expensive-looking black and green robes settled in a shimmering pool around her. She wore jewelry — a few rings on her fingers, a silver necklace dipping under her robes — but instead of family crests or precious stones they were all inscribed with inscrutably dense runes. She was young, perhaps thirty, her sharp face home to eyes as dark as the long, midnight-black hair framing it.

Acting mostly from reflex, Ciara had already drawn her wand, was in the process of brandishing it properly when the woman calmly lifted a hand. So quickly and so gently Ciara almost didn't notice, her wand slipped from her hand, flicking over to the stranger's. 'None of that, now,' she said in a smooth, flat voice. Almost anticlimactic, really. 'You would be Lady Ciara Selwyn?'

Ciara had to frown at that. 'You break into my home and that is your first question? And how did you get in here anyway?' She mentally checked the wards quick. 'The anti-apparition ward is still up.'

In a calm, easy sort of tone, the woman said, 'That would be why I didn't apparate. And I was only confirming I had the right person. It would be such a hassle to have to memory charm someone for the dubious crime of being someone other than you.'

This was very, very peculiar. But by now, her surprise and annoyance had both wound down, and she was mostly just curious. Besides, if the woman had intended to assassinate her, she would have already. 'And who are you, exactly?'

'I have gone by many names. I've honestly lost track by now. But the one you would have heard was Silvahárr of House Syltheris.'

Ciara couldn't help snorting at that. The name as used had changed a bit over centuries of linguistic drift and shifting traditions, but the original name had been preserved to be found by those who cared enough to look. 'Ignoring for a moment that Salazar Slytherin died over a thousand years ago, he was a _man_.'

The woman cocked her head a little, her dark gaze narrowing slightly, focus intensifying to the point it was almost tangible. Her voice, though, was still perfectly level. 'Now, now. Do you honestly think someone as old and powerful as I—' In the space of a syllable, the air around them suddenly changed. Before, there had only been the fluttering of their own magic around them, the almost absent echoes of the enchantments all around. But something new exploded into existence — the penetrating bite of the coldest winter, the visceral relief of refreshing waters, the unbound power of spring lightning. Ciara drew in a shuddering breath at the feel of the magic now exuded by the stranger, even as she spoke on. '—can't be whatever I wish? Though, to be completely honest, being able to do this has nothing to do with being powerful or old. I was born a metamorphmagus, you see. But that is not what I am here to talk to you about.'

Ciara took a short moment, working her mouth in a vain attempt to remove the sudden dryness that had struck a moment ago. She eventually managed to say, 'And what is that?'

'I would like to make something of a trade.'

* * *

 _Ænglisć (IPA: [eŋ.glist͡ʃ]) — Old English in Old English_

 _Yeah — the word Godric is saying here is gēa (IPA: [jæ:ɑ]), the more casual Old English word for "yes" (which would be too formal for someone in his state and level of education). That I actually took a moment to consider that proves how much of a nerd I am._

 _Hroðwyn — This name would eventually be modernised to Rowena. This name is of mixed etymology: hrod is Germanic and wyn is Brythonic. I know there is no support for Rowena being muggleborn in canon, but I'm playing with canon so much anyway, so fuck the police._

 _Silvahárr — This name would eventually be modernised to Salazar. This name is also of mixed etymology: silva is Romance and hárr is Nordic._

 _And yes, I know, I changed both Rowena's and Salazar's original names. I can't help it — they are just so completely inappropriate for their place and time. Godric and Helga, at least, keep their first name._

 _Hayastan/Hayeren — Armenia/Armenian_

Njarðøy — _Old Nordic place name_ , _Nærøy in modern Norwegian_

 _Academy at the Open Valley — "Open Valley" refers to the gap between mountains that contains Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and their immediate surroundings. I created the term by guessing at possible etymology for Hogsmeade. Because, obviously "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" wasn't the original name of the place. Firstly, it would have had to have been in Old English or some other language (Scottish, Brīþwn, Latin…); but even then, they wouldn't have been able to use the Old English version of "school," since the word meant something entirely different at the time. Secondly, "Hogwarts"_ _ **is**_ _a stupid name. I refuse to believe any of my headcanon Founders ever would have gone along with it for even two seconds._

 _Syltheris — Συλθηρις_ _(far as I know, not a real word, I made it up)_

* * *

 _Two new stories in one day? It's like Christmas up in here._

 _This will mostly be me playing around with the characters who have irrevocably become my headcanon Founders. In case it wasn't obvious, they're not quite the same as they're implied to be. Slytherin doesn't care about muggleborns much one way or the other, for one. Some_ _chapters — maybe most or even all, we'll see — will start with flashbacks to the ninth and tenth centuries, which can be assumed to be canon history for my other stories. I mean, modifications to canon canon that hold for all my fanfics. Because I just have to make things complicated_

 _The non-flashback parts, however, are essentially for-the-shiggles crack fic. I originally got the idea from Skype conversations with a friend of mine, where we were randomly making little silly Gryffindor–Slytherin conversations for the fun of it, until it grew to the point that a story appeared in my head, and I had to do it. My brain gives me little choice like that._

 _This fic will likely update very irregularly. I'll be posting whenever I happen to have a chapter done, however often that will be._

 _Until next time,_

 _~Wings_


	2. Still not used to how strange you are

_May, 876_

* * *

 _Godric was shaking so badly he could barely stand. But, somehow, he still managed to stumble his way into the lair of the wandmaker. The vicegrip Silvahárr had on his arm probably helped._

 _He wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting. From the education into magical history and culture he'd slowly been getting, he knew House Olivander was one of the Noble Houses, the British branch of the much larger House Elaíoin, which was apparently spread over much of Europe. House Elaíoin had been around for quite literally thousands of years, a reality that honestly hurt his head to think about too much, and had produced some of the first European craftsmen to bring wands to the Continent from across the sea. Godric had been given the vague impression the art had originated in the Holy Land, but he wasn't positive. While apparently not all Elaíoin families were wandcrafters, there were certainly quite a few of them, universally well-regarded wherever they happened to live. Members of House Olivander had been providing wands for the area since shortly before the Romans had ever even gotten here long ago, and to this day were considered the greatest wandcrafters of the Celtic world._

 _The idea of all that history and fame floating around this place was honestly a bit intimidating, and he wasn't at all sure what he would find inside. But what he did was the last thing he'd expected — a complete mess. Since most of the light from outside was blocked by heavy curtains entirely covering the windows, the sizeable room was lit only by the constant orange glow of magical light, which still struck him as somewhat eerie. Along the walls were shelf after shelf after shelf, all a disorganised tumult of random things. Uneven piles of parchment here, boxes of varying sizes there. Along the walls and even in the middle of the floor, hundreds of man-height lengths of wood from dozens of types of tree, more often than not still encased in knobby bark with twigs still branching off, sometimes bound together with twine, sometimes not, strewn about carelessly. In any space not taken up by any of that, perhaps thousands of long, thin wooden boxes, sometimes stacked neatly, sometimes in skewed piles, as though disturbed by one of the lower boxes being roughly whipped out of place._

 _Not far in from the door was a desk, covered in more parchment and a few peculiar, spindly metal objects he couldn't identify, some of the flawless goblin coins mages and the wealthy used, randomly scattered across the surface. In a back corner was what was obviously a work counter of some kind. Sitting there, delicately working at a thin length of wood with an absolutely tiny stylus under blindingly white light, was the hunched over figure of who could only be the resident wandmaker._

 _A twitching smile on his lips, Silvahárr called toward the back of the room, 'Phile?'_

 _The figure started, twisted over to look at them. Despite himself, Godric was a bit surprised to see the wandmaker was a woman — he'd guess in her thirties, light-haired and narrow-faced. Certain things about mage culture still struck him as somewhat odd, one of them being the much looser gender roles. Most families, even the poor ones, educated their daughters the same as their sons, and no one batted an eye at women pursuing whatever sort of life struck their fancy. The mage's warriors, for example, were virtually split evenly. There were even a number of Noble Houses led by women. The most unusual part about all this, to him, was that nobody seemed to think it was unusual. He'd by now taught himself to just shut up and play along. A noblewoman he'd met striking him in public with a humiliating hex for what he had seen as simple courtesy, but she had seen as a grave insult, had been rather effective motivation._

 _The woman dropped both her stylus and what he assumed was a partially-completed wand to the counter, pushed herself up on oddly shaky-looking legs. And then spoke to Silvahárr — in Latin. At least, Godric thought it was Latin. It sounded more like Latin than the Celtic languages the mages usually spoke._

 _Before she'd gotten in more than a sentence, Silvahárr interrupted with, 'I would prefer Ænglisć today, if you please. For the benefit of young Godric here, you see.' He tried not to bristle at being referred to as_ _ **young**_ _. He'd never asked, but Silvahárr couldn't be more than a couple years older than him._

 _Still stumbling her way toward them, once nearly tripping over a few branches strewn across the floor, the woman nodded. When she spoke again, it was in Ænglisć — Ænglisć with a bit of an odd accent, but still Ænglisć. 'No trouble, I know. Your father paid me make yours specifically, some of my better work. There shouldn't—' She suddenly froze, her pale, gaunt face narrowing in suspicion. 'Didn't break it, did you?'_

 _Silvahárr just laughed, shaking his head to himself. 'No, Phile, I didn't break my wand.'_

' _That girl you brought in still doing well? What was her name, Hodu, Huru…'_

' _Hroðwyn. Yes, she's still doing very well — a couple masters I've talked into helping teach her consider her something of a prodigy, actually. Won't be much longer now until she surpasses me, I think.'_

 _The woman blinked at him for a few seconds, her mouth then cracking into a grin, her teeth glittering slightly between chapped lips in the magical light. 'Now, Master Syltheris, was that admiration I just heard in your voice?'_

 _Smiling a bit himself, Silvahárr shrugged. 'Maybe a little.'_

' _Hold it back some, then. If you finally settle down of your own accord, I lose bet with my brother.'_

' _Don't worry, there's no danger of that.' His smile turning a little unpleasantly crooked, Silvahárr said, 'Do you really think Lord Syltheris would abide his eldest marrying a commoner? Couldn't have that.' The woman gave a little shrug of assent. 'Besides, I'm set to be married this autumn anyway. One of the macDuibhshíthe girls.' Godric turned to stare at Silvahárr, not entirely sure how to react to that news. Despite how he'd been seeing the man almost every day for over a month now, he somehow hadn't yet heard that._

' _Which one?'_

' _Not sure, honestly.' His uncomfortable sort of smile shifting into a playful smirk, he said, 'When the wedding comes along, do you think I should ask her her name before or after I bed her?'_

 _The wandmaker's reaction to what struck Godric as something almost inflammatory to say was far milder than he would have expected — more than anything, she just looked somewhat distantly amused. 'I would suggest before.'_

' _I'll try to remember.'_

 _Godric could only sigh._

* * *

 _August 31st, 1991_

* * *

He was already starting to worry this might have been a terrible idea.

He'd had his doubts at the time, of course. It did seem to be going to more trouble than they really had to. It was also something of a slow-burn plan — but, then again, time wasn't exactly at a premium, so that didn't really matter so much. It would put them in a rather decent position to observe, make both impressions and contacts they could draw on later, in exchange for only a few years of boredom. One of the bigger warning signs this might not be so smart was how subtly eager Grigor had been at their final planning meeting. It had just been a little unnerving, he couldn't say exactly how. Really thought he'd be used to his old friend's nonsense by now, but apparently not.

He hadn't had any trouble wrapping up the affairs of his previous identity. He'd hardly been in it for all that long, after all. Crafting the new form he'd be using for the foreseeable future had been a bit more difficult — recreating himself as an eleven-year-old boy was more than most others could do, but doing it so he'd age naturally was an extra layer of improbable complexity — but thankfully not beyond his abilities. He had been doing this a while now, nothing really new.

Everything had been arranged with Elpidis Smethwyck, and there, there was where the first problems were already coming in. After a bit of research, he'd settled on House Smethwyck to be his first contact — Grigor had questioned the decision, but he'd stuck with it over his flat protests. The plan wasn't too absurdly complicated. The both of them would pose as children of two different families, use their time at the Academy and as many contacts as they could get through their respective Houses to gather as much information of current affairs in their native land as they could, before finally revealing their true identities in early adulthood — earlier if circumstances force their hand, but ideally — which by itself could theoretically give them all the political weight they would need to do what was needed. To be completely honest, he didn't think it was all that solid of a plan, and was still a bit shocked Grigor hadn't laughed the idea down instantly, but here they were.

Elpidis had been nothing but eager to allow his famous ancestor he knew as Godric Gryffindor (Elpidis was legitimately descended from him, through more than one of his children, actually) to bear the name of his House — he would now be going by Richard Smethwyck for at least a few years. If anything, Elpidis was a bit _too_ eager. He hadn't known this, but apparently he, Silvahárr, Hroðwyn, and Helga had attained legendary status among many as a quatuorvirate of culture-heroes. Reading up a little, listening to Elpidis ramble, it almost seemed his own people had quite nearly deified him. The thought made him uncomfortable, honestly.

So, Elpidis had a bit of hero-worship going on, yes, and that was awkward. But that wasn't the only awkward thing. Richard got the idea Elpidis was sort of preemptively showing him off, probably so he could brag about it later. The whole thing was just so uncomfortable. He'd had to veto some of the man's more flashy ideas, usually involving inviting large numbers of people over to the manor to introduce them to the newest member of House Smethwyck. It was so ridiculous.

Not the only problem, though. It'd somewhat belatedly occurred to him that, since he was posing as an eleven-year-old, people would likely expected him to talk and act like an eleven-year-old. He simply didn't know if he could do that convincingly. He literally couldn't remember being a child at all. It was a struggle to remember anything from before roughly a quarter of the way through the tenth century, and by then he'd already been, what, sixty? The last children he'd spent more than a couple hours total around were his own great-grandchildren, who had all now been dead for centuries. He really had no idea how to act like a child.

This was going to be so awkward. He hoped Grigor would have a fairer time of it.

Actually...

Now that he thought about it, he rather hoped Grigor _wouldn't_ have a fairer time of it. By the time he'd met Silvahárr of Syltheris he'd already had a fair amount of responsibilities tempering his more, hmm, _outlandish_ behaviour. He was quite suddenly wary of what nonsense his old friend would get up to unbound.

He wasn't entirely sure what identity his partner had taken. While he'd settled on House Smethwyck relatively quickly — keeping in mind a few potential backups, of course — he knew Grigor had come up with a whole list of possible Houses to contact. He couldn't remember what most of them were, not that it really mattered. Now that he'd escaped the preening Elpidis onto this silly red steam engine the Academy apparently used these days, he couldn't exactly just ask around for him by name. But, then, he didn't necessarily have to.

Standing out of the way just off the toilets at the back of one of the carriages, he closed his eyes, stretched himself outward throughout the train. He found it almost instantly, blaring stridently in his mind like the tripping of an alarm. Because, of course, an alarm it was — by the texture of the magic, he instantly knew his old friend had chosen a compartment, locked the door shut, charmed it with a rather tricky avoidance spell to keep the children away, then put an extra charm on top of all that to alert him specifically when he found it. A personal invitation, basically, although one that was giving him a bit of a headache.

He walked toward the proper compartment, his trunk charmed weightless drifting behind him. Maybe he shouldn't have done that — it had seemed to him an obvious thing to do, and surely within the capabilities of most adults to perform for their children, but it didn't seem anyone else had done the same, and they were all giving him odd looks. Oh, well. He doubted he would have been able to remain completely inconspicuous anyway. Before too long he reached the proper door, the locking charm melting away at his touch in an instant, so he slid it open.

Sitting across one of the benches, feet planted on the surface and back against the side wall, book open against tilted legs, was a small, pale-faced, black-haired girl. For a second, Richard thought he'd somehow stumbled upon the wrong compartment, but no, that was impossible. There had been that very complex spellwork on the door, the intricate subtlety characteristically Silvahárr. And then, there was the feel of the girl herself. She was holding it back somewhat, enough it wouldn't be noticeable to most people, but he could tell. No normal child was this powerful. Filled with tempestuous magic to bursting, ice and lightning. No, this was definitely Silvahárr. He'd just decided to make himself a girl. And a girl he would remain for the foreseeable future.

Richard couldn't even say he was entirely surprised. So he just shut the door behind him, completely failing to hold back a sigh.

'Smethwyck?' the girl who was his oldest _male_ friend said in a high, clear voice. Which somehow struck him as oddly familiar.

'Yes.' Not looking at him — her? this was confusing — he stowed his trunk away with a flutter of magic, settled in on the right-hand bench across from her. Yes, her. Would be less effort to keep track talking to other people that way. 'And what name are you going by now?'

'Sarah Selwyn.' She turned away from her book for a moment, long enough to give him an almost unnoticeable smirk that could leave absolutely no doubt this was the same person. 'But you can call me Sally.'

Richard let out a snort, shook his head to himself. _Sally_. He supposed that was supposed to be in reference to _Salazar_. 'I've known you over eleven centuries now, and I'm still not used to how deeply _strange_ you are sometimes.'

In a tone of utmost reasonableness, she said, 'It hasn't been eleven centuries cumulatively.'

'I suppose that explains it, then.'

'I suppose it does.' As though that finished their conversation, she turned serenely back to her book. No matter how odd it was to see him doing it in the form of an _eleven-year-old girl_ , Richard had seen Silvahárr do almost that exact thing so many times it was still perfectly familiar.

'What's that you're reading anyway?' She didn't answer — instead she let the book fall closed, page saved with a finger, tilting the cover his way so he could see it. Bathilda Bagshot, _Hogwarts: A History_. Richard was immediately struck by the oddness of Sarah reading a history of a place she'd helped create written by someone born a millennium later. 'Ah.' After a second, Sarah again silently reading, Richard decided to ask, 'How is it?'

When she spoke, it was with the barest traces of disdainful derision on her voice, held back with the usual veneer of politeness so prized by the nobility of any era. 'It is a most intriguing work of fiction.'

Richard winced. He'd already gotten the impression the people of Britain held certain fanciful illusions about the four of them — judging by how Elpidis had been treating him, he'd have to be an idiot not to notice. But he hadn't thought the fictionalisation of his own life had been so thorough even the _history books_ would have it completely wrong. 'Is it really that bad?'

'Far as I can surmise,' Sarah said with the slightest of shrugs, 'it seems to be mostly accurate after the thirteenth, fourteenth century or so. But before then, it reads as a fairytale at best, a myth claimed as fact at worst. And, of course, I was somehow made into the villain of the story.'

For a second, Richard just blinked at her. But she wasn't even looking at him, still calmly reading. Actually, now that he thought about it, that calm was quite likely only external. 'Villain?'

Sarah glanced at him for just an instant, eyes flicking in a heavy gaze. 'Didn't you know, Richard? Every good story needs a villain. Though the whole thing strikes me as rather peculiar. Tell me, old friend, did I ever give the impression that I think any less of you for your birth?'

Richard had to think about that for a moment — it was so long ago. 'Well, I suppose you could be a bit condescending at times, as though you didn't think—'

'No, not that.' Though she was interrupting — proving him right about the condescending bit, he guessed — her voice still had the same light, casual feel to it, absent any harshness. 'Not what I mean. I mean, did I ever give you reason to feel I thought less of you for having mundane parents?'

'Oh,' he said, frowning a little, 'no.'

'Did I ever give the impression I held any hatred or disgust for such people?'

'Not really.' He felt a smirk start stretching across his own face. 'Unless "hatred" and "disgust" have formed into some quaint modern idioms meaning "adoration" and, shall we say, "having thorough carnal knowledge" — they haven't, have they?'

It could just be his imagination, but it looked like Sarah was _almost_ smiling. 'No, they have not.'

'Didn't think so.' For a few moments they sat in silence, Sarah reading her book, Richard absently teasing at the thrumming of the enchantments all around them. But eventually he couldn't hold his curiosity back anymore. 'And how exactly did they make you a villain?'

Sarah's face tightened slightly — not really enough to be called a scowl, but noticeably displeased. ' _Apparently_ , some decades into the operation of the Academy I started insisting we should only accept students of magical parentage. You objected — as you quite obviously would, especially considering your own heritage, though that fact also seems to have been lost to time.'

'Never mind the fact you would have had to sleep with one eye open the rest of your life, lest you wake up one night with Hroðwyn eviscerating you in your bed.'

All Sarah had for that was a slight nod, simply acknowledging that, yes, such behaviour quite likely would have made Hroðwyn murderously enraged. At that moment the room around them jerked, shuddered slightly into motion. The train must be starting on its way to the Academy. 'In time, you grew annoyed with me enough it came to a duel, and I was driven out of the Academy in shame, to live out the short remainder of my life in quiet infamy.'

Richard snorted at that. 'Don't think I can imagine you shamefully quiet.'

Her eyes flicked to him, the slightest of smiles again on her face. 'And here I thought you were laughing at the idea of _you_ somehow defeating _me_ in a fight.'

Well, there was that. 'If I didn't give you enough time to prepare for it, I could probably win.'

'Come now, Richard. I'm always prepared.'

Well, there was that.

For some time, they sat in their seats in comparative silence. Sarah continued reading from her book, so Richard pulled something from his trunk, started flipping through it. His impression of their transfiguration text was...mixed. And not mixed in a good way. On the one hand, he thought it might be too advanced for eleven-year-olds — in the sense of the complexity of language used, not in the material covered. Granted, he had a very bad impression of how well children could read at what ages, but he was pretty sure this was a bit too dense for the age group. His other thought was that, well...it just wasn't very _accurate_. Okay, it was _technically_ accurate, but it wasn't really talking about transfiguration. The text was mostly describing transfiguration charms — _not_ the same thing, _at all_ — with only the barest hints of actual transfiguration theory. Maybe okay for children in the first year of magical education, but he was already concerned it could become problematic later on in their studies, dissonance between reality and the simplified vision they'd been previously taught making things more confusing than they really had need to be.

Oh, well. He'd just have to see how the class was taught. That was one of their goals, after all, to evaluate the quality of education at the Academy. He'd be paying close attention either way.

They'd been on the train for maybe a couple hours — he honestly hadn't been keeping track — when the door to the compartment quite suddenly slid open. Richard jumped at the noise, and was immediately embarrassed over it. A young, girlish voice, with a strange note of simulated authority, sprang from that direction before the clanging from the door violently being ripped open had even entirely faded. 'Has either of you seen a toad? Only, Neville here's lost one.'

Before Richard could properly focus on his surroundings, Sarah was already speaking. 'Neville? You mean, Neville Longbottom?'

Longbottom? Didn't he know that—? Right. That had been one of the Noble Houses Richard had looked into, before dismissing them — no adults around the proper age to make his existence credible.

In the door was standing a young girl, he thought maybe eleven or twelve, wearing a plain black version of the modern Academy uniform (which he was pretty sure meant she was a first-year), impressively fuzzy brown hair encircling her face. Behind her was a boy, right around the same age, with soft, gentle features, and a look about him that instantly told Richard the boy had long ago adapted to people walking all over him. A bit depressing seeing that look in eyes so young, but it did happen sometimes. The boy shrank a little at Sarah's question, looking timidly over to her side of the room. Richard noticed Sarah had set her book aside, sitting up properly in her seat for the first time the entire trip.

'Erm,' the boy said, whispering voice sounding painfully shy, 'yes, that's me.'

Sarah was opening her mouth to say something, but was soundly interrupted by the girl. Richard couldn't even try to hold back a wince — his oldest friend had always _hated_ being interrupted. 'Is that _Hogwarts: A History_? You've been reading it?'

For just a second, Sarah silently stared at the girl, her eyes only slightly narrowed. 'Yes, I have.'

'I must have read the entire thing cover to cover myself, at least twice, along with all of our course books, and a couple others I picked up for background, just to get as firm of a context to start with as I can manage. Nobody at all in my family is magic, you see — rather a surprise when Professor McGonagall dropped in to explain it all, really — so I thought it would be prudent. When I saw _Hogwarts: A History_ , I just had to add that to the list, and all of it is ever so fascinating, like reading a history text pulled from the context of some fantasy novel. Except it's real.'

Suddenly, Richard was a thousand years in the past — Hroðwyn had taken a bit too much of what he was pretty sure had been opium, panicked a bit, and had taken a bit too much of one of her invigoration draughts to compensate. The girl's rapid rambling was in nearly the same sort of style.

Not too much like that particular occasion, though. If this girl started tugging at her own clothes Richard would be out of here so very, _very_ fast.

Sarah shot Richard a short, exasperated glance — though whether she was annoyed with the girl herself or with Richard for being amused with her, he wasn't sure. 'It certainly does have the feel of fiction about it, doesn't it.' Remembering their earlier conversation about the very same book, Richard had to smile a little wider. 'But I believe you were looking for a toad?' Sarah said, turning instead to the boy. 'A magical breed, I assume?'

Neville gave a soft little nod. Waving the boy into their compartment, Sarah got to her feet — Richard belatedly noticed the knee-length, black-and-green sleeveless dress she was wearing was actually rather nice, probably quite expensive — and took his wrist with her right hand. Drawing her wand with her left, she touched the tip of the wood to the middle of Neville's palm, then turned to glance at the other girl. 'I suppose, from all that reading, you would have learned what properties are common to magical breeds of toad.'

The girl's back straightened, a seemingly unconscious gesture Richard couldn't quite read properly. 'Magical breeds of toad and a number of other amphibians are prized for their usefulness in experimental potion-brewing, especially as relates to deciphering the transfiguring qualities of—'

'Yes, yes,' Sarah said, sounding slightly impressed almost despite herself, 'that is their _use_ , certainly, Miss...' She trailed off, suddenly frowning to herself. 'I never did catch your name.'

'Oh.' The girl suddenly looked a little sheepish. 'Hermione Granger.'

She nodded at her. 'Sarah Selwyn. That's Richard Smethwyck.' Richard give a nod and a smile at the quick introduction — noting Longbottom's reactions to their names: the first almost terrified, the second mostly confused. 'What I had in mind was something less to do with how these toads are _used_ , Miss Granger, but more something they would do all on their own without humans to prod at them. No? Mister Longbottom?'

The poor boy looked even more uncomfortable than he had a minute ago, his eyes flicking warily between Sarah's face and where her ancient wand (at least, it _looked_ like the same one) touched his palm, seeming wary halfway to terrified, but yet with visible pink crawling across his cheeks. 'Ah, they can sort of, erm, apparate?'

'Something like that, yes.' Richard could easily feel Sarah weave the spell together with the slightest flick of her wrist. What maybe only he could ever notice was how she hesitated at the end, as though abruptly remembering an eleven-year-old, which she was pretending to be at the moment, couldn't possibly be able to cast this silently. ' _Alligātum veniat_.' Richard honestly couldn't remember if that was what the incantation was _supposed_ to be — he hardly ever used them anymore — but it sounded plausible.

With a snapping sensation that was more tactile than audible, a fat, frankly ugly-looking toad popped into existence covering the boy's hand. The animal immediately gave off a bored-sounding croak.

After a few effusive gaspings of mixed apology and gratitude from Neville, and a loud declaration from Hermione that Sarah _must_ speak with her later about book stuff, the children had left, and the two of them were again alone in the compartment. In seconds, Sarah was again absorbed in her book, the room again falling to silence.

Richard considering speaking for a moment, but he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't most likely make Sarah annoyed, so he just went back to reading himself.

But they weren't alone for long. Maybe a half hour later, the compartment door was again being slid open — though with much less exuberant violence. The voice that spoke this time was also considerably different, the accent the same Celtic dance, the tone the same aloof politeness he'd already come to associate with the magical upper class around here. 'Excuse me, but they're saying all down the train Harry Potter is on board. I don't suppose either of you know which compartment?'

There was something curious about this boy. He was another around their simulated age, wearing the sort of fine robes he honestly thought were too expensive to be putting on a child, holding himself with a sort of quintessentially noble air about him. Richard noticed his white-blond hair wasn't naturally that colour — there was a low-level glamour worked into it, concealing the original shade. Everything about the way he held himself, the way he smoothly turned to look down his nose at each of them in turn, screamed rich, pampered, arrogant brat.

But, somehow more subtle than the purely visual, Richard swore he saw the same trampled look in his eyes Longbottom had had.

Again, before he could think of how to handle the intrusion, Sarah was already talking. 'Harry Potter is on the train? Really?' Her face took a somewhat distant cast, as though considering something — Richard could tell she was just acting, but he honestly didn't know how obvious it would be to anyone else. 'I guess this _would_ be the right year, wouldn't it, if you add it up?'

Richard noticed the boy was giving Sarah something of a curious look. Less her, he guessed, so much as what she was wearing, especially the necklace of layered silver mostly hidden under the neck (which Richard could only assume was imbued with her characteristic mobile wards). The boy then glanced at him, probably taking in the fact that, while he was dressed less flashy, he didn't exactly look poor either. Gathering himself again, the boy said, 'I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten my manners.' He quickly introduced the two boys behind them — both thicker and taller than the first, they didn't say anything for themselves, just nodded in something approximating companionable silence. 'And I would be Draco Malfoy.' He raised a thin eyebrow between them, patiently waiting.

Richard had intended on waiting for Sarah to speak first, but after a few seconds had passed with nothing — he had noticed the slightest hitch in her bearing with the boy's name, but she didn't seem _that_ distracted — he decided just to get it over with. 'Richard Smethwyck,' he said with what he hoped was a friendly smile and nod. The boy already seemed completely unimpressed with him, so maybe it didn't matter.

That was sort of amusing, really, an eleven-year-old boy quite nearly dismissing him like this. He'd have broken into a grin at the thought if he hadn't been smiling already.

By the time he was done with that thought, Sarah had already introduced herself. Malfoy had turned to look at her, the feel of him suddenly a hair more intense, more focused. 'Yes, my father had mentioned something about a new Selwyn mysteriously showing up. You've apparently had a number of people attempting to explain where exactly you came from.'

This wasn't exactly the sort of conversation Richard was great at, but he _thought_ Malfoy was maybe fishing for information. But, he was sure, if it was a question Malfoy could think to ask so quickly after meeting her, it was certainly one Sarah had considered how to answer. Smiling at him a little thinly, she said, 'No harm telling you, I suppose. My mother was Éimhear Selwyn.'

'I'm sorry,' Malfoy said, almost actually sounding it, 'but she died in the war, didn't she?'

Sarah nodded. 'I don't remember her at all.' With some amusement, Richard realised that one sentence was probably the only part of this whole story that wasn't a lie. 'And I don't even know who my father is.' That was funny too, but for an entirely different, more depressing reason. 'I've been told I came about as, well, something of an indiscretion. Auntie thought it best to keep my existence within the family until I could speak for myself well enough.'

Apparently that peculiar explanation made enough sense to Malfoy, since he just nodded at it. 'Not too much of an indiscretion — your father was still pureblood, of course.' Sounded more a question than a statement.

With the slightest of shrugs, Sarah said, 'I've been lead to believe so. Far as I can tell, the problem was more that he was simply...well, not the sort of character House Selwyn wants attached to our name, if you follow my meaning.'

Richard didn't follow her meaning at all. But, _apparently_ , it again made perfect sense to Malfoy, because there he was again simply nodding. 'Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll be continuing on my search for Potter. I'll be looking for you at school, Miss Selwyn.'

Sarah's smile turned slightly crooked. 'Please, Cousin—' Richard jerked, but quickly tried to suppress all signs of his shock. '—you can call me by my name.'

For a second, Malfoy seemed to hesitate, but then repeated, 'Cousin,' with a slight nod. He glanced at Richard quick, but apparently decided not to acknowledge him any further at all, and was soon gone, his cronies tromping off behind him.

Richard sat back in his seat, crossing his arms lightly over his chest. 'Well,' he said, making his voice light, 'aren't you just the popular girl today? Everyone coming in here to talk to you.'

The false smile now gone, a single eyebrow only slightly raised, Sarah said, 'Don't be jealous, Smethwyck.'

He repressed a sudden urge to sigh. 'Yes, very funny. But before you distract us with your breath-taking wit, maybe explain something? _Cousin_?'

Sarah gave him a blank sort of look — not that that was much different from her usual expression, honestly. 'What's there to explain? Young Draco's grandmother was a Selwyn.'

'And?'

'You didn't think I chose House Selwyn for no reason at all, did you?' And there Sarah went with that oh-so-familiar unimpressed, disappointed tone again. Not quite so familiar in this particular voice, but the tone was characteristic enough he'd never fail to recognise it. 'I've already made a provisional list of individuals who will quite likely be so unfortunate as to find themselves in our way. Near the top of the list we find Lucius Septimus Armand Candidus, Lord Malfoy and father to my _dear_ Cousin Draco.' Richard felt himself frowning a little — he'd known the Malfoys were _French_ nobility, and while he hadn't been surprised to hear the name, he hadn't expected these British Malfoys (he assumed, a cadet branch of some kind) to be ennobled up here too. Well, _only_ up here, since France didn't have an aristocracy anymore, but not the point. And _wow_ , three middle names, nobility were so silly. 'House Selwyn has been a close ally of House Malfoy for a few generations now — in framing myself as an inoffensively friendly blood relative to young Draco, I gain a fairly unobtrusive opportunity to get close enough to Lucius to keep an eye on him, even neutralise him should we find it necessary and I come upon a good opportunity. Not the sole reason I chose House Selwyn, of course, but a good one all its own.'

Richard somehow managed not to sigh. 'Well, you just have everything completely under control, don't you?'

With a flat look, Sarah simply said, 'Yes,' her voice giving the clear impression she thought that should have been obvious.

Really, he guessed it should have been. His oldest friend had always been one of those people who.. Well, he was glad they were on the same side, he'd leave it at that.

'Oh,' Sarah muttered, sounding slightly distracted.

'What?'

'I think Malfoy found that Potter boy of ours.' Sort of weird thing to say, if technically true — he knew from his research that the modern House Potter was ultimately descended from the both of them. But, by this point, honestly? So were most British mages. Living this long was sort of weird like that. Anyway, Sarah made a lazy gesture in the general direction of the floor, he felt a twist of space-bending magic, and—

'—and Gregorios Goyle.' It was the voice of the young Draco Malfoy emanating from the floor, so clearly there was no real noticeable difference in tenor from when he'd been physically present. 'I would be Draco Malfoy.'

Richard felt the smirk on his own lips. 'Listening charm on a child? Bit underhanded, don't you think?' Sarah didn't answer, just gave him a short, quelling look.

While Richard had been teasing Sarah, a bit of what sounded like choked laughter had slipped through the listening charm. When Malfoy spoke again, his voice was noticeably chillier. 'Is there something amusing about the Noble House of Malfoy? And just who do you think you are to— No, wait, you don't have to tell me; I can see well enough all my own. You are the spitting image of your father, Mister Weasley. Why, I imagine even that very robe you wear now once belonged to him — and who knows how many others.'

'Classy,' Richard muttered, mostly to himself. Sarah surely heard, but she didn't argue — not that she looked like she wanted to.

The chill vanishing from his voice, the Malfoy boy said, 'I am pleased to meet you, Mister Potter. It would not surprise me to hear you did not know this, growing up away from our world as you have thus far, but we are sort of family, you see.'

The other voice, the one referred to as _Mister Weasley_ , let out a harsh snort of laughter. 'Oh, yeah, _right_.'

'I would not lie about that,' Malfoy said, an odd tenseness on his voice this time, as though fiercely trying to prevent himself from becoming angry. 'My mother was born to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Her great-aunt Dorea, her mother's father's sister, married Charlus Potter — the same Charlus and Dorea Potter were _your_ grandparents, Mister Potter.'

The Weasley boy again, in apparent disbelief: 'But that would make you two second cousins!'

Now, there was a third voice, another boy, but sounding soft, quiet, oddly hoarse. Even so, all he managed was, 'Erm...?'

'I didn't mean anything by pointing it out,' Malfoy said, his voice the sort of casual that made Richard certain the boy was shrugging slightly as he spoke. 'I'm simply trying to establish my motivation here. Our world is entirely foreign to you, Mister Potter, I can understand that. I've heard people in situations much like yours can find the whole thing...confusing, say, overwhelming. But we are your people. If you ever need help — finding your way, understanding anything beyond you, arranging introductions to the right sort of people — you only need ask.'

'Oh, like he'd ever want help from you!'

'Ron...'

'I don't believe I was speaking to you, _Weasley_.' And there was the ice on his voice again. Actually not bad for an eleven-year-old. 'Do learn to observe at least the barest of courtesies and mind your own business.'

'Don't listen to him, Harry! House Malfoy and House Black are Dark as any, have been going back as far as anyone can remember! I'd be surprised if there's even _one_ of them who hasn't been in Slytherin!'

'There is Sirius, but I'm not entirely sure he should count.'

'Mass-murdering Death Eater!'

Malfoy let out a long sigh. 'If you ever want to talk, Mister Potter, I'll be available. Now, if you'll excuse me, I seem to be coming down with a headache.'

A slight twitch of Sarah's fingers, and the spell went silent, inverted and faded away. 'Well,' she said, sighing a bit herself. 'I'd criticise Malfoy for being a bit more crass than necessary, but that Weasley boy really wasn't making it easy for him.'

Richard had gotten that much. Not that he'd gotten much else — he wasn't entirely sure why Sarah had bothered putting a listening charm on the boys, if that was all they were going to get. Maybe she'd expected something more interesting? He wasn't sure, to be completely honest. He _still_ wasn't great at anticipating what Sarah would consider interesting or useful. But one thing was kind of bothering him. 'What did Weasley mean, _in Slytherin_? What was he talking about?'

He was a bit surprised when Sarah didn't answer. She just stared at him, eyes a bit narrowed, lip curled visibly in obvious distaste — much more obvious than his old friend's expressions usually were, really. Without saying a word, she turned back to her book.

He probably shouldn't have found that funny.

* * *

 _[...the art had originated in the Holy Land...] — In my headcanon ficland, the sort of wand used by modern times was first created in Uruk-period Mesopotamia, developed into something mostly like the modern version in dynastic Sumer, before then spreading around the world. Improvements were made gradually over the millennia, of course, but the basic idea is that old. Wands would have come to Britain from Sumer through Dilmun through Egypt through Crete through Greece (which Crete wasn't considered technically part of at the time) through Rome. Wow, isn't that fun xD_

 _Elaíoin — from ἐλαίοιν, meaning something like "of olives"; and, yes, for any nerds out there who might have noticed, it's conjugated in the dual-genitive, and not the plural-genitive, on purpose._

 _macDuibhshíthe — I considered looking up what that would actually be in Old Irish, but then decided, No, fuck that._

 _quaint — An archaic use of the word is intended. A possible modern synonym would be "clever"_

 _Alligātum veniat — Latin, something like "(that which is) bound comes", in the subjunctive._

 _Éimhear — pronounced something like " **ey** -ver"_

* * *

 _Well. Certainly took me longer to get the second chapter out than I honestly expected. My brain has just been...well, whatever, doubt you care._

 _The ending is a little sudden and awkward, but these two have quite a bit to do their first day back, and it seemed the only reasonable break coming up at any point in the next several thousand words. So I went with it._

 _Next chapter will be our first from "Sarah"'s perspective (and the opening flashback will probably be from_ _Hroðwyn's). Hopefully it won't take me as long to get_ _out as it did this one..._

 _~Wings_


End file.
